Love and Haunting
by Sylvia Fig
Summary: Two months after he jumped to his death, Sherlock's ghost lingers. But he feels himself fading. Sherlock has to touch John, just once, before he goes.
1. Chapter 1

If I could sleep, I would dream about him. About how I never touched him like I ached to.

But in death, the barrier between us is thinner. I can stand close enough to hear him breathing. To see the yellow sunburst in the center of his irises; the lines around his mouth that he got from frowning at me. I don't have to hide my longing. A small mercy of my phantasmal existence.

At first, I had a body. Transparent and invisible to anyone with a pulse, but it had my bare feet and fingers. Now I have no body and I know it's because I am fading. There's not much time left.

I have to touch him, just once, before I go.

I watch him sit in the corner of the shower as steam fills the bathroom we once shared. This is when he lets himself mourn for me. He doesn't cry so much anymore. He just fixes his eyes on the tile and his face goes blank. What is he thinking? I wish I could ask.

He stands, turns the shower off. Pulls the curtain back. Water drips from his hair into his eyes. My John. He is beautiful.

He rubs a towel over his hair, leaving it ruffled, and dresses himself in a striped sweater and three-year-old jeans. I follow him to a bar two miles away. He goes to a different one every night and tells the bartender a different name every time. I don't blame him. The media frenzy surrounding my suicide has faded a bit, but his name is still recognizable.

I know his routine exactly. A different bar and a different woman who always looks the same: curly brown hair and blue eyes. I try not to think about why this is his type, because if I do, the pain of it consumes me.

Immediately I see the woman he will choose. She's sitting at the bar, alone. Short hair; pretty, but not too pretty. She sees him looking and they begin to flirt. I watch his face as he talks to her, never quite smiling, never quite frowning.

An hour passes. Two.

Soon, the question will come: My place, or yours? I can always tell when he starts getting restless. Everything needs to be ready before then.

I approach the woman. Get up close and test our boundaries. I've tried this a few times with varying levels of success, but tonight it cannot fail. I push harder and chill bumps spread up her arms. The sensation of resistance against my nonexistent body is alien, but for the first time in two months, it makes me feel real. She gasps as I sink into her.

I open her eyes. My eyes. Just for tonight.

John is standing next to me, looking at me. Not quite smiling at me.

"Wanna get out of here?" he asks.

"Yes. My place, or yours?"

"Yours," he says. He always says. He's never brought a woman to 221B.

I feign like I've forgotten something. "Sorry, I only just remembered. My flatmate's parents are in town. Can it be yours?"

Let's go home together, John. One last time.

He looks irritated. This was not part of the plan. But it's late, and he's restless, and he wants to break his own rule. Just this once.

"Alright," he says.

_Touch me,_ I beg him. _See me._

We leave. The taxi ride is short and silent. I look at him, breathe the same air as him. He stares out the window and taps his fingers against his leg.

We go up the steps to 221B and he unlocks the door.

"Would you like a drink?" he asks, walking into the kitchen.

I shake my head. Follow him in.

He takes a glass from the cabinet and I, tentatively, rest my hands on the center of his back. It feels solid and soft, just like I always thought it would. He stiffens a little. I run my hands over his shoulders. Squeeze them.

He begins to relax. Beneath the cologne he wears to make people think he's younger, he smells like John. I bury my nose in the crook of his neck and inhale deeply. Yes. This is what I need. We belong inside each other.

I kiss him there. He moans and arches his neck and I kiss him again. Lick him. Taste the salty sweat on his skin.

He turns and takes me into his arms, tangles his fingers in the curls of my hair, presses his lips against mine. His lips. All of my imaginings were so wrong. They aren't soft. They're hard and textured and perfect. He breathes against my mouth and I feel it, I feel his warmth, and I take it into my lungs. I want to live inside of him.

My fingers under his shirt, feeling every groove and muscle.

The woman whose body I've borrowed begins to wake. I push her down. Not yet. Just a little more time, please, please. Let me stay.

This is it, John. I'll be gone after this. Do you feel it? Do you know?

The bedroom. His bedroom. His hands on my face, in my hair. Tracing the arches of my hipbones. I straddle him, looking at him beneath me. The bags under his eyes, because he can't sleep anymore; the scruff on his jaw, because he can't be bothered to shave.

We're naked together. I'm not sure when that happened.

He's hard. I'm ready.

But his eyes are closed.

"John," I say. It's a woman's voice, but it's me. Can't he hear me?

"Hmm?" he says.

"Open your eyes."

He does. They're blue and beautiful and he's looking at me, but he's not seeing me.

I wrap my hand around his dick and press it into me. This is what I need. Him inside of me. This is where he belongs.

"_John_," I repeat when he starts to close his eyes again. He blinks. "Keep your eyes fixed on me."

He gasps, sits up quickly and grabs me by the shoulders. Still inside of me.

Hello, John. Do you know me now?

"Why did you say that?" he asks.

I tell him the truth. "Because I want you to see me."

We move together and it's everything. For once I can't think, and I revel in it. In him. I touch him everywhere. I feel him everywhere. He's sweaty and sweet and tastes like John, like John, my John. If I am permitted eternity, I hope I can carry this memory. How he felt inside of me. The flavor and texture of his lips.

It's getting more difficult to stay. My vision is darkening, like it used to before sleep.

I wrap myself around him and he holds me. I gasp for breath and realize I am crying.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"John, John, John..."

"Hey. Hey, talk to me."

"John, John, John..."

He pulls me down beside him. My head on the pillow next to his.

"My last magic trick is almost over," I say.

His eyes widen. He presses his hands to either side of my face. All I can see is blue.

"Goodbye, John."


	2. Chapter 2: Love and Suffocation

_Love and Haunting_ told from John's point of view. For best results listen to "Svefn-G-Englar" (Sleepin-g-angel) by Sigur Ros as you read. Translation of lyrics into English are at the end of the fic.

* * *

The steam is suffocating me. That's good. I breathe in and I breathe water, the perfect representation of my drowning. My lungs pulse, searching for air. I turn the shower off. Push the curtain back. Let the water run into my eyes so I won't turn my head and see my reflection.

I learned how to be alone. Before him. I'd gotten pretty good at it. And then he stormed into my life, _filled_ my life, and made me forget how it felt to live without him – how am I supposed to recover from that? I can't. I don't know how.

A person like him shouldn't ever cease to be. It hardly seems possible. His incredible mind – his heart – how could it all just stop? It never occurred to me that he was human enough to die.

I pick some clothes up off the floor and go out. I don't know the bar, but more importantly, it doesn't know me. I am a stranger to these people. A stranger to _her_. She tells me her name and I forget it. Her hair is almost as short as his, except a bit lighter. Her eyes are the wrong shade of blue. She's too tan. Too short.

But for tonight, she will be perfect.

We talk about things that don't matter. I order another drink. It takes so much energy to keep track of conversation and half my mind is always seeing him. Carving his face deeper into my memory, clinging to every detail.

Sherlock.

I would give anything to touch you again. To see you one more time and tell you... everything.

The woman stops talking. I look up. For a second my mental image of him is superimposed over her – she's looking at me the way he would when I did something he thought was smart. A little bit of wonder. Maybe even love.

I never let myself think that before. But I think that's what it must have been. Love. Right? I wish I could ask him.

"Wanna get out of here?"

"Yes," she says. "My place, or yours?"

"Yours."

She cringes a little. "Sorry, I only just remembered. My flatmate's parents are in town. Can it be yours?"

I jingle my keys in my pocket and clench them so the teeth dig into my fingers. No, it can't be mine. Because it's not my place; it never belonged to me. It was ours. Sherlock's and mine.

"Alright," I say, hating myself.

The cab ride is quick, thank god. I give the cabbie a wad of bills and have to stop myself from shutting the car door in the woman's face. Guilt is a bitter taste in my mouth. I smile my best smile at her, telling myself to be nicer to her. She stares at me, wordless. She's strange and quiet and I like that.

"Would you like a drink?" I ask, walking into the kitchen.

She responds by resting her hands on my back. It's too soon. I'm not drunk enough; it was a mistake to bring her here. God forgive me, Sherlock – I shouldn't have brought her here.

She squeezes my shoulders. Breathes against my neck. A network of hairline fractures spread under my skin, reaching deep inside of me. I close my eyes and pretend the breath is his. Try to ignore the voice telling me that he will never breathe again.

I turn and take her into my arms and bury that voice in her hair. I press my lips against hers, stopping Sherlock's name with her mouth. I tell myself it's okay. We were drinking alone in a bar, and now we're here together, hearts beating beside each other, and that's much better, isn't it? Isn't anything better than being alone?

We shed our clothes like skins. I pull her into my bedroom, onto the bed that holds me when I dream about him.

She straddles me. I'm glad. Now I can close my eyes and drift.

But then she speaks.

"John," she says.

"Hmm?"

"Open your eyes."

I do. It's dark and all I can see is a crown of short, curly, dark hair and it makes my breath stop in my throat. She lowers herself onto me. All thought spirals away.

"John." Her voice again, stern this time. "Keep your eyes fixed on me."

I gasp, sit up, hold her by the shoulders. Those words. "Why did you say that?"

She says, "Because I want you to see me."

I understand. I understand.

We move together. I lose myself in her. My body overrides my heart and mind and I'm just a collection of nerve endings, and all that matters is sex and friction. In these moments, the sweetest amnesia is gifted to me.

The woman gasps. I think for a second she's about to come, but her exhale is too ragged. I focus on her. Tears are dripping from chin onto my stomach. I gather her into my arms, hoping I didn't hurt her somehow.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"John, John, John…"

"Hey. Hey, talk to me."

"John, John, John…"

I lay back and pull her down beside me. Cushion her head on a pillow.

"My last magic trick is almost over," she says.

His words. Those are _his words._

I take her face into my hands. Her eyes – the wrong shade of blue, and she's crying, but…

"Goodbye, John."

* * *

"Svefn-G-Englar" (Sleepin-g-angel) by Sigur Ros

_I'm here again_

_Inside you_

_It's so good staying here_

_But I can't stay long_

_I float in underwater hibernation_

_(in a hotel)_

_Connected to the electricity board_

_(and drinking)_

_But the wait makes me uneasy – I kick the fragility away_

_And shout – I have to go - help_

_I explode out and the peace is gone_

_Bathed in new light I cry and I cry - disconnected_

_A ruined brain is put on breasts_

_And is fed by sleep_


End file.
